


The Other Side

by bethfrish



Category: Great Escape (1963)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethfrish/pseuds/bethfrish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You made it through the tunnel. It doesn't mean you're free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other Side

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Destina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/gifts).



Danny knows he won't sleep the night before the escape. He closes his eyes and pulls the coarse wool of his blankets up against his chest, but he can still hear the hushed footsteps of the guards through the walls of their hut, can still see every nameless shadow splayed across the wood of the ceiling, stained like ink against the back of his eyelids. 

It doesn't matter how many days it's been, he can still feel it when he swallows, that dry, gritty nightmare of sand and minerals and earth, choking the cry from his lungs as he fights for one more breath. Sometimes it seems like it's all he can remember anymore, the way the dust clings to his skin and lingers in the back of his throat. How when he inhales too sharply his mouth tastes of iron, like the bitter tang of cracked skin and blood. 

"Danny?" comes a whisper from somewhere beneath him. "Are you awake?" 

Danny opens his eyes. "Yes." He waits for the rustle of covers, knowing that it's only a matter of time before Willie pokes his head up over the edge of his bunk. "Why are you not asleep?" Danny asks. 

Willie smiles earnestly at him through the darkness, propping his arms against the worn frame of the bed. "Think of it, Danny. After tomorrow night, we'll be free. Free from this place. Free from everything. I may not sleep at all tonight," he whispers feverishly. 

Danny turns his face into his pillow, dark hair falling over his eyes. "I think I may not ever sleep again," he says distantly, and Willie's boyish smile fades. 

"Hey," he whispers, laying his hand across Danny's arm. "We'll make it out all right. We will. I promise, Danny. You and me." 

Willie's touch is warm against his skin, but Danny told himself long ago that not all promises are forever. He rolls onto his side and places his hand on Willie's shoulder. "We should be careful not to wake the others," he says, resting his fingers against the soft, worn threads of Willie's pajamas. 

"Right," Willie says. He catches Danny's fingers in his and disappears beneath the shadows of his own bunk. "Goodnight, Danny," he whispers a few minutes later. 

"Goodnight," Danny answers, wide awake as the guards outside continue their rounds, scattering the dirt beneath their feet as if it were nothing. 

  
  
  
  


The sharp March air still feels like winter, but Griff didn't have the thread to spare for gloves, and Danny knows they should be thankful that it hasn't started to snow. He digs his knuckles into the lining of his pockets, staring out into the woods as Willie checks their compass. 

"The Neisse is a straight shot due west," Willie explains. "We should be able to make it by sunrise. Then we just follow the Oder until we reach Stettin." 

Danny smiles grimly. "I hope someone will lend us their boat, because I was never very good at swimming." Willie gives a soft laugh, but Danny only purses his lips and nods towards the forest. "We shouldn't stand here any longer," he says. 

Four hours later, Willie pulls a map from his pocket and spreads it out beneath the light of Danny's carefully guarded match. "It shouldn't be long now. Another hour, maybe, if we keep at this pace. Are you hungry?" 

Danny shakes his head. "I'm all right," he says, then peers at Willie in the darkness and adds, "And you?" 

"Just cold," Willie laughs, brushing up beside him. "Roger picked a fine night, didn't he?" 

"It will be warmer in the morning," Danny says, savoring the burst of heat when Willie takes his hand in his and draws the matchstick to his lips. 

The rowboat is nothing short of heaven sent, and Danny takes the single set of oars in his hands before Willie can think to protest. "I'll row first," Danny tells him, steering in the direction of Willie's frozen fingertips. Stettin is a day away, even in the best conditions, and while the soft light of dawn is a welcome reprieve from the cold, it carries with it an entirely new set of dangers that neither wants to mention. 

"Tell me when you're tired, Danny," Willie says from across the hull. "I'll take over." 

The corner of Danny's mouth twitches. "I can row faster," he says gruffly, but Willie just smiles and pulls his coat tighter around his body, drawing his knees to his chest as he closes his eyes. 

Danny loses track of the distance, loses track of the time, and the sun is only beginning to set when he looks up through the sweat in his hair and finds Willie crouched down on the balls of his feet. "You've been at it long enough," he insists. "When was the last time you slept?" Danny clenches his jaw and says nothing, but Willie resists the oars without even trying. "Your hands are bleeding," he says gently. 

Danny looks down at the stained cuffs of his jacket. "I need an hour, no more," he insists, but Willie pulls the oars up on the side of the boat and shakes his head, finding his handkerchief in the pocket of his trousers before pressing it to Danny's calloused palms. 

"Sleep," Willie tells him, taking his place at the bow. Danny pulls his cap down over his eyes and pretends to do as he says, because sleep won't come—not last night, not now—and all he can do is wait as the waning daylight robs the air of its warmth, listening to the river crash and fall as Willie's pale eyes reflect the rising lights from the shore. 

  
  
  
  


They reach Stettin in the early hours of the morning, treading carefully through the open waters of the Oder because only a fool would think that the city isn't more Nazi than native this far into the war. "We just have to look like we belong," Danny mutters, trying to decide if it's safer to steer away from the chaos or into it. 

"Over there, Danny." Willie motions carefully to his left. "If the name is anything to go by, that ship should be headed for Stockholm. What do you think?" 

Danny glances over his shoulder, nodding silently. His arms are on fire and the dry wind burns worse than the sand, but he knows too well that they have to do this quickly or not at all. 

Willie smiles weakly. "Good luck to us." 

There's no one in sight when they set foot on deck, but both of them know that boarding the ship is the easy part. Willie stops beside a small hatch in the floor, crouching down to inspect the handle. "This must be the anchor locker," he says with hushed excitement. "I don't think we're going to find a more perfect—" He stops all at once, trying to hide the concern from his voice. "This is okay, isn't it? We could—" 

Danny frowns. "It's fine." They descend the ladder and pull the hatch shut, stepping carefully between piles of netting and heavy coils of chain. "We even have a window," Danny says flatly, pointing to the sliver of light streaking in through the hawsehole. 

"Luxurious," Willie agrees. 

They push the netting up against the wall and crawl into the corner, pressed up beside one another in what little space remains. Willie digs into the pocket of his coat, retrieving the last of their sandwiches. 

"Do you want to rats to join us?" Danny asks, but Willie just laughs and presses the torn bread into his hand. 

"What do you think you'll do when we get back?" Willie asks after a while. They've been hiding for hours with no sign of departure, no sign of anything. Danny can feel the ache beginning to creep back into his knees. 

"I don't know," he says. 

Willie reaches down into the space between them and brushes his fingers against Danny's wrist. "Because—" 

Danny grabs his hand and squeezes. "Be quiet." Willie looks at him questioningly, but doesn't let go. 

The sound is unmistakable now. The cold echo of footsteps down the hatch. Clipped murmurs of German and Swedish coming from somewhere above deck. The ship must be getting ready to depart, but that isn't why Danny's heart is racing. 

The netting falls away without warning. " _Vad_ —" 

Willie springs to his feet, waving his hands frantically. "Wait, please! British! We're British! Oh, Christ, do you speak English?" 

The sailor stares at them for a moment, checking over his shoulder with a troubled expression. "Yes, I speak English," he says finally. 

Willie heaves a great sigh of relief. "Oh, thank goodness." 

"What are you doing here?" the sailor asks. "You should not be here." 

"Please," Willie begs. "Please, we're only trying to get home." 

"You are British?" 

Danny remains silent, Willie nods. "Yes, British. Please, will you help us?" 

The sailor studies them for a moment, then purses his lips. "The German police are above," he says. "But I will hide you if you promise to stay quiet. Yes?" 

"Yes! Oh, yes!" Willie gasps with relief. "Thank you! You don't know—" 

He puts his finger to his lips. "Please," he insists, not unkindly. "My name is Tomas. I will come see you after we depart, but you must not make any noise until the police have gone." 

"Yes, of course." Willie slides down next to Danny, smiling gratefully as Tomas replaces their makeshift barricade. "Are you all right, Danny?" he whispers when it's quiet again. 

Danny lifts his eyes. There were times, towards the end, when he couldn't take the tunnels anymore, when Willie would cradle his head in his arms and tell him that he was okay, that all of this was worth it if it meant they got to see the other side of that wire. And when Danny was the one who had to scrape through the rubble, one frantic tangle of arms and legs as he forced the dirt from Willie's mouth, Willie just looked up at him and grinned, blinking the dust from his eyelashes as he coughed and whispered, "Good thing you were there." 

Danny exhales roughly. "If I had been here on my own," he says, "I think our friend would have sent me overboard." 

Danny can feel Willie's laugh course through his body like a tremor, like it's Willie's voice in his throat, Willie's pulse in his veins. He can feel the weight of his sigh when he clutches Danny's hand in the space between their knees, threading their fingers together as he slowly drifts to sleep. It's too familiar to be too close, and he isn't sure what will happen when he has to let go. 

  
  
  
  


They arrive in Stockholm late Monday morning, hungry and exhausted and so overcome with relief that Danny hardly has the words to speak. He survived the last two years clinging to the hope that freedom was within his grasp. He hadn't realized that he'd never allowed himself to finish the dream. Now that he's here, none of it seems real. 

"I don't think I've ever been so grateful to set foot on land," Willie laughs, throwing an arm around Danny's tired shoulders. His clothes are smeared with dirt and his hair smells of the sea, but when he smiles his eyes betray them all, that bright, startling blue that rivals even the sky. "We made it, Danny. We're going home." 

Danny leans against him, squinting into the sunlight. "I know," he says. 

Tomas rejoins them once they're ashore. True to his word, he'd kept them out of sight while the police had concluded their inspection, listened to their story—the short version and bits of the long—leaning against the wall in bewildered silence until Willie had lacked the energy to continue. He'd even brought them food from the cabin, realizing all at once that they should have been half-starved. 

"We will find the British consulate," he tells them after taking leave of his duties. "And then, if you can bear one more journey, you will please join me and my friends for dinner." 

Danny feels like he's been awake forever. He tries to track the hours in his mind, sorting through the stream of his own punctured consciousness, but the last three days are an endless blur of blistered hands and swollen joints, of fleeting, absent sunsets and the crippling fear of being caught. He can't remember if he slept on the ship or not, but he nods and tells Tomas, "Thank you." 

They wait in the office for hours, filling out papers and speaking with one consul after another, but when they finally emerge it's with fresh clothing and the first hotel room they've seen in years, and all Danny can think is that the place is far too clean for the likes of them. 

Willie sits down tentatively on the edge the bed, running his hands over the flawless expanse of white. "I don't know if I'll be able to sleep here," he jokes. "This mattress is much too soft." 

Danny lies down on his own bed on the other side of the room, folding his hands across his chest. "There's always the floor." 

When he opens his eyes again, Willie is standing over him, water dripping onto his shoulders as he fastens the buttons on his shirt. 

"Sorry," he says quickly. "I didn't know if you were asleep or not. I thought you might want a bath." He pauses. "You know, we don't have to go. Not if you don't want to." 

Danny vaguely remembers the sound of running water, the warm haze of steam against his skin. "I wasn't asleep," he says. "We'll go." 

Tomas takes them to a bar where his friends are already waiting; a sailor named Jan who's scheduled to leave for Helsinki in the morning, and Elsa, his neighbor, who smiles prettily at them as if she knows something they don't. 

"Elsa makes hats," Tomas informs them with a playful smile. "Very stylish and overpriced." 

She swats at his hand from across the table, shaking her head as she scolds him in Swedish. "Perhaps you will come see them later," she tells Danny, smiling as she lowers her glass. "Tomas is just bitter because his head is too big." 

They dine on herring and potatoes and more beer than Danny's seen in two years. "Best to hold back," Tomas warns. "Give your body time to adjust." The first drink makes Danny's head spin. 

Tomas tells them the latest news. Jan asks them timid, delicate questions about the camp. Elsa cuts into her fish and sighs, "They don't want to talk about that," calling for another beer when she sees that Willie's glass is empty. Danny hardly speaks at all, just stares through his ale and tells himself that this is what life is like outside the wire, this is what he wanted. 

The night fades into a haze of endless, liquor-blurred hours. Walking to Elsa's smoke-filled apartment at half past midnight, sinking into the sofa with her cat curled up in his lap. Willie falls down beside him on the cushions, adjusting that hideous purple cloche as Elsa leans in behind them and laughs, elegantly plucking the cat hairs from the felt. 

At some point Willie presses up against him on the sofa, resting one hand on his leg. "Do you want to leave?" he whispers. Danny can smell the alcohol on his breath. 

He shakes his head, studying the grain in the floorboards as he runs his fingers through Bertie's copper fur. "Whatever you want," he says. 

Elsa brings two bottles of wine out from the kitchen, forcing a glass into Danny's hands before he can decline. He slowly raises it to his lips, wondering if he'll ever be able to sleep through the night. 

He closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens them again Elsa is leaning in close from behind the sofa. "Let's go to the other room," she says softly, trailing her fingers beneath the pressed collar of the British consulate's shirt. Tomas and Jan are passed out in their chairs, heads down on the table beside their wine, but Willie's still there next to him, hazy-eyed and flushed, his own shirt half undone. 

Elsa laughs again. "Your friend can come too," she murmurs against his neck. "I'm not blind." 

Danny freezes at her touch, pushing his way from the sofa as Bertie bounds away. 

He staggers outside, breathing shallowly into the frigid bite of the wind. He can't take it; that putrid smell of lingering cigarettes and dyed, wet wool; overripe fruit and the sickly spice of earth he can never seem to shake. Willie gazing up at him through his eyelashes, incited by too many beers and that woman's grating laugh— 

The front door creeks open and Willie slips through the entryway, Danny's jacket draped carefully over his arms. "Bloody cold," he says after a moment. 

Danny doesn't meet his eyes. "Yes." 

Willie hands him the coat, steady on his feet despite the liquor. "Let's get some sleep," he says. 

Danny doesn't expect him to touch his shoulder and smile. That was before—a whole different lifetime—and all Willie does is nod and turn around, shoving his hands in his pockets as he slowly walks away. 

  
  
  
  


The office of the British consulate rings their hotel in the morning, pale rays of sunlight seeping in through the curtains as Danny covers his eyes with his arm. He can tell who it is by the excitement in Willie's voice. By the way he inhales before replying, "Of course." There's a flight to Scotland that leaves the next afternoon, followed by a train that will take them the rest of the way to London. Willie replaces the receiver with an unsteady hand; Danny knows he's been awake for hours. 

"This is it, then," Willie says. "We're going home." 

Danny digs his palms into his eyes. It turns out that Willie was right about the mattress. Danny had spent the better part of the night turning restlessly beneath the covers, caught between half-conscious dreams and the urge to tear every starched white sheet from the bed. He knew well enough that Willie wasn't asleep either—he'd always been able to tell—but he'd only closed his eyes and waited for the morning to come, echoing the shallow, soundless breathing that betrayed them both. 

"This is it," Danny agrees. 

They breakfast on eggs and toast and freshly made Swedish coffee, sitting at a small café down the road from their hotel. Danny purses his lips when Willie adds three teaspoons of sugar to his cup. 

"I thought you British only drank tea." 

"Well," Willie says, smiling slightly as he tears the yolk of his egg. "They say that war changes you." 

Tomas comes to see them again, dressed as he was when they first met. "Ah, I thought I had missed you," he sighs with relief, taking Willie's hand in his. "My ship is leaving once more for Stettin. I wanted to make sure I wished you luck, since you will surely be gone by the time I return." 

"I don't think we can ever thank you enough," Willie tells him. "Truly, thank you." 

Stettin feels like a lifetime ago, and Danny can't imagine ever having to go back. He doesn't think he'd make it out a second time. "Yes, thank you," he echoes, extending his hand. 

Tomas smiles. "Did you enjoy last night?" he asks. "I hope the beer did not, ah, upset your digestion. I must also apologize for falling asleep before you left." He laughs. "I suppose I did not take my own advice." 

Danny can feel Willie's eyes on him, that loaded silence that only he can hear. "Your friends were much better company than the Germans," Danny says with a wry smile. Tomas laughs, and Willie just steps forwards and thanks him again. 

Danny hasn't been on a plane since that Fw 190 sent him spiraling towards the earth, wondering in those fragile, fleeting moments if his life was about to burn up around him. He lies across his bed, listening to the scratches of Willie's pen against the desk. "Who are you writing to?" he asks. 

Willie pauses. "My sister. But you know, I suppose I might actually see her first. That's strange to think about, isn't it? Of course, I don't even know if she's safe. I could make it to London only to find that my family is gone. That they've left, fled—I don't know." Willie smiles unhappily. "We don't even know what we're going back to, do we?" 

"Your family is safe, I'm sure," Danny says. 

"And you?" Willie pauses. "What will you do?" 

Danny turns onto his side. "I have sisters too," he says, "but it's been years... I wouldn't know where to write. I wonder who else made it out," he says before Willie can try to assuage his fears with well-intentioned lies. "Roger? Hilts? I... I don't have anywhere to go. If I made it out and they didn't..." 

Willie's standing over him now, shaking his head. "Don't think like that, Danny. You can't—I promised we'd make it out, remember? You and me." He crouches down beside the bed and props his arm up on the frame, the way he used to at their bunk when neither of them could sleep. "I wouldn't have made it on my own." 

"Of course you would have." 

"No, not alone," he insists almost desperately. "I wouldn't have wanted to go at it alone. I... I don't know what I would have done if you weren't still there." Then he inhales sharply and leans in, brushing their lips together before Danny can think to reply. 

The kiss is too hesitant, too shy, but it's the only part of the last four days that's made Danny feel anything but fear. 

Willie pulls away without warning. "I—I'm sorry—" he says, panicked, but Danny catches his wrist. 

"Willie..." 

"I know you aren't...I mean..." Willie looks at him painfully, but Danny just shakes his head. 

"Willie," he says slowly. "I never thought about what I would do if I actually made it out. I used to think that I'd go crazy down there, that maybe I already was." He gives a tired laugh. "But you're the only part of this whole stupid war that ever made any sense." And he pulls him close and kisses him until he's sure that Willie believes him. 

They fall asleep together on Danny's bed, just like the days they spent lying across a bunk with half its slats missing. Listening to the guards crawling beneath their hut, sifting through the dirt and finding nothing. Reading a book together in the dull light of the afternoon because sometimes it was all they could do. Waiting for the signal that it was all right to dig, and hoping, in the silence between them, that freedom would desire nothing in return. 


End file.
